


As Cruel as My Father

by Ranni



Category: Avengers, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Angst, Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Friendship, Bruce Banner Is a Good Bro, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Howard Stark's Bad Parenting, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Off the grid camping hell, Past Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Protective Tony Stark, Someday Phil really needs to come back, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 09:08:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10487259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranni/pseuds/Ranni
Summary: Tony is stuck in an off-grid Shield safehouse with Bruce and Clint, and the three deal with PTSD nightmares, barbed wire, questionable oatmeal, and a hefty dose of cabin fever-inspired angst.





	

  
"You guys are happy about this," Tony says, and there is a note of wonder in his voice that then turns accusatory. "You are, admit it!" He frowns at them, not really angry--well, maybe just a little--but mostly baffled and frustrated that it has all come to...this.

Bruce shrugs, and exchanges a grin with Clint, who is openly and very unapologetically excited to be getting out of the city. "Think of it like camping," Bruce suggests. "People camp all the time, for fun. On vacation and stuff."

"This is not a vacation," Tony points out peevishly. He is aghast, is scandalized. "A vacation means a beach. And if a vacation includes a fucking cabin, then it's one in the mountains, buffered by ski resorts on all four sides, and equipped with electricity and a jacuzzi. Not..." Tony gestures helplessly "this...thing."

It is technically a Shield safehouse, but it's actually a cabin in the middle of a huge forest somewhere deep in Appalachia. There is no road, there is no electricity, there is no anything but bugs and air and trees. It had all been arranged very quickly; so quickly in fact that Tony hadn't had much time to protest and overthink things--he now guesses that all of that was intentional on Steve's part, so that he couldn't start protesting and put a stop to this--a hasty plan to get Tony far from New York, from Pepper, from Iron Man suits, from threats.

"Off grid," Steve had said. "Completely off, untraceably off. We send Pepper one direction, take you another, your tech another still...and everything and everyone stays put until the rest of us deal with this threat and eliminate it."

Natasha was with Pepper, the only bodyguard that his lady love would ever need. Tony has no idea where the two women had disappeared to, but hopefully their accommodations are nicer than his. Clint had volunteered to go with Tony, and Tony pretended not to see or make anything of Rhodey's sigh of relief. Since technically Tony was the target, and in the most danger of being captured and tortured to reveal his newest tech, Bruce had also come along. A second level of safeguard; the Hulk to take over in case Hawkeye was incapacitated or otherwise not enough on his own.

Clint drops his bags inside the doorway with a loud thud. "Ah, safehouse, sweet safehouse."

It's decently sized, with one big room that serves as living area and kitchen, with two small bedrooms down a short hallway, and a bathroom. There's indoor plumbing, at least, and a small propane water heater that allows for a fast--very fast--shower.

"I hate everything about this," Tony says darkly.

"It'll be fine," Clint assures him as he pulls open cabinets, taking stock. He nods absently to himself; it is equipped in the manner that Shield does all its safehouses, and he is pleased. When it comes to survival, Clint doesn't like surprises, deviation. "Just think, when we get back to New York you can seduce Pepper with your newfound knowledge of preparing meals exclusively using non-perishables."

"Is that how you won the fair Natasha?" Tony gripes. He plops down on the couch and considers crossing his arms and glaring, but it's too childish, even for him.

*******

Tony is already bored. That's a lie, really, he was bored yesterday, and the day before, but now he's _really_ bored. Bruce is reading, again; his bags must have been filled with books and little else. Sometimes he writes in a notebook, tongue slightly between his teeth, smiling to himself a little. He looks so peaceful that Tony kinda, sorta--just a tiny bit--wants to punch him in the face.

Clint says he is going to patrol the perimeter, which encompasses many acres, but Tony knows it's just an excuse to go outside and walk around. Clint would probably _live_ outside, if he could. Probably in a tree. At the top of a tree. With a bow and arrow and a bag of chocolate bars, happy as a fucking clam.

They play cards that afternoon for a few hours until Tony suggests strip poker. Bruce says he's going to read some more, and Clint makes noises about doing another perimeter check. These two are without a doubt the least fun people he could ever have been stuck in the boonies with.

Tony scrounges through the cabin looking for something to build with, but inventing just isn't as much fun without electricity. A few days in he has an idea of how to improve the propane water heater in the bathroom so that they can take showers that last longer than five minutes.

"If you break it we will have no hot shower at all," Bruce frets, and Tony rolls his eyes at the suggestion that _he_  would ever break something.

Clint is more confident. "Go for it."

Of course it works, and the extra three minutes of hot water is glorious.

*******

"Powdered milk is literally the worst thing in the world," Tony declares. He has had it every day for a week now and he would deny to his dying day that he had teared up when Bruce had started mixing it this morning.

"Last night you said that instant mashed potatoes were the worst thing in the world."

"That was a simpler time. I was younger then, more naive. Now I know that it is powdered milk. Kill me, God. Kill me now."

"Then don't drink it," Clint suggests with an eyeroll. "Geez, no one is making you, or gives a shit if you drink milk or not." He is at the gas stove, heating water in a pan to make coffee. There are still pillow lines on his face and his hair is sticking up a little in the back. He looks tired.

"Here we are, observing the Barton in its natural habitat," Tony stage whispers in his best Crocodile Hunter impression. "Note his disheveled appearance. He is not currently trying to attract a mate, so he leaves his bed head unattended, stays clothed in pajamas like the disgusting sloth he is. All of it a clever illusion, to fool would be attackers into thinking he is not actually an apex predator."

Clint shoots him a dirty look, but there is a smile in his eyes. "Wouldn't Hulk be the apex predator? I don't really think I stand a chance up against Big Green." He gives the pot of water a forlorn look, willing it to boil faster.

"Yeah, but Hulk is too busy camouflaging himself as the mild, nerdy Bruce Banner, which makes you the current reigning King Shit of Turd Mountain."

"Long live the king." Bruce grins and toasts him with a cup of milk. He takes a long drink and very manfully suppresses his wince at the taste. Clint sketches a lazy salute back.

"So, what are we doing today?" Tony asks, and immediately, before Bruce can open his mouth, adds "Don't say reading. Or cards. Just don't. I can't. I cannot EVEN."

"We could have a spelling contest. Or a poetry slam," Bruce suggests dryly at the same time Clint offers "You could come out with me, get some fresh air."

Tony doesn't really want to go hiking around with Clint, but he wants to be stuck inside even less, so after Clint finally finishes making the coffee and drinks about fourteen cups of it Tony goes with him after all. Clint moves too fast and doesn't talk nearly enough, but at least it's not the cabin.

Clint stops every once in awhile to scale a tree, to get a better view, he says. Tony clambers up behind him, slowly and less gracefully, but he makes it. "I can't see anything," he observes, "except trees and more trees and then some tree covered mountains."

"I like it," Clint says with a happy grin. He waves his hand out toward the sky. "It's peaceful. Makes me think that it's not...not all bad, you know?"

Tony doesn't quite know what to make of that statement, so stares off into the horizon, trying to see whatever it is that Clint sees.

*******

Tony liberates some of Bruce's lined paper and a pen and starts leaving notes around the cabin, or tucked into the other men's belongings for them to find.

Dearest Clint,  
I hope this letter finds you well, and that you're being nice to Tony. I've been thinking, and I've decided we should go ahead and tell the team what happened in Budapest. The Avengers are a safe space for our feelings. In fact, feel free to share while you are on your cabin adventure, and let me know how it goes.  
Love, Natasha "Scissor Legs" Romanov  
PS: I like you. Do you like me? Yes/No (circle one)

Dear Hulk,  
I've been thinking, and feel that we should break off and form our own super team. We don't have to talk, just fight and cuddle, cuddle and fight. We could be so hot together; you have no idea.  
Love, Thor

Dear Clint,  
Remember when we went away for that mission alone and you came back with both arms stained dark blue, and one of my hands was also dark blue? And everyone was suspicious but we said it was classified and couldn't be discussed? Well, I've been thinking about it, and I've decided it would be a good teambuilding exercise to try to trust the Avengers with this information. I suggest starting with Tony Stark. He seems like a jolly, understanding fellow.  
Love, Captain "Underpants" America  
PS: I like you. Do you like me? Yes/No (circle one)

*******

It was hard to sleep; all three of them suffered nightmares of some sort.

There are only two bedrooms but Bruce is apparently quite content to sleep on the couch, wrapped in quilts like a cozy burrito. One time Tony had come out at night to get a drink of water to find Bruce twitching and muttering to himself. Tony had turned on his heel and gone straight back to his room to stay thirsty the remainder of the night; the last thing he wanted was a Hulk-out in the middle of the woods of Bumblefuck, West Virginia, or wherever they were.

Many nights Tony dreams of Afghanistan or the Battle of New York. He did so regularly in the Tower, and here is no different. He wakes up gasping and wishes to God this place had electricity, that he could flood the room with light, chase away all the shadows. Wishes that Pepper were there, or even JARVIS, to talk to. Bruce and Clint are around, but it's not like he can wake them up and hug it out. He wraps his arms around himself, but it's not the same. Not the same at all.

One night Tony hears a low cry from Clint's room and a weird thumping noise. Tony is tempted to curl into his blankets and go back to sleep, but something about it nags in his mind until he gets up and pads down the short hallway to Clint's door. He knocks softly, not wanting to wake Bruce up. "Clint? You okay in there?" There is no response. "Clint? I'm, uh, I'm coming in...God, just don't kill me, okay?"

He opens the door and walks in, deliberately making his footfalls loud, trying not to creep, not to startle. The curtains in Clint's room are wide open and the moonlight streams in, so it's not that hard to see. Tony goes to the bed and is surprised when Clint isn't there. Isn't...anywhere.

Still, he can hear a quiet wheezing noise. "Clint?" Tony whispers. Then "Clint?" a little louder. "Where the hell are you? I can hear you breathing, you know." Using the dim light and his ears he finally zeroes in on the corner of the room, and can just make out a pair of bare feet sticking out from a cramped space between the wall and a large wooden dresser.

He goes over and sure enough, there's Barton, wedged in that too-small space, his eyes huge, both hands clamped over his mouth, trying to quiet his ragged, panicked breathing. "You okay?" Tony asks, and reaches out to carefully touch his friend's knee. "It's me, it's Tony," he whispers when Clint flinches from the contact as if burned.

Clint shakes his head, or rather just tosses it a little, then peels one shaky hand from his face. "Don't--" he gasps, then clears his throat and says a little more steadily, "Don't touch me."

"It's okay. You're okay." But Tony withdraws his hand.

"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah." Clint nods, but his eyes still dart around, huge and black in the moonlight. "Thanks for checking on me. You're a good friend. Thanks, Tony. But go away now. Just....go...okay? Okay? Okay." He breathes hard between each word.

It feels wrong, but Tony knows that feeling, of wanting to have a breakdown in peace, with no one watching, with no one's eyes on him. "Are you sure? I can just stay. Not touch you, not talk. Just stay with you."

"No, please go. Thank you. A good friend. Thank you. But go away." He claps his hand back over his mouth and closes his eyes, burying his face into his drawn up knees.

Tony leaves him there and goes back to his own room, against his better judgement and certainly against his conscience. And he thinks of Bruce muttering on the couch, thinks of himself hugging his arms around his chest in the dark, of Barton panicking silently into shaking hands. There's a problem there, and probably a solution, but as smart as Tony is about everything else, he can't quite work out how to sort these kind of puzzle pieces into the right places.

*******

"Son of a BITCH!" There is a note in Clint's voice that brings Tony on the run.

"What happened? What's wrong?"

Clint is sitting on the ground, his lower legs in the leaf pile where he had landed. He pushes at it, groaning. "Fucking...fucking barbed wire. Piece of shit." There is a nest of coiled barbed wire, rusted and covered in years' worth of damp layers of leaves. Clint had stepped down from the tree straight into it; it is snarled around his foot and leg all the way up over the knee.

"Why would that be here?" Tony growls as he helps Clint unwind it carefully from his leg. "Why would there _even_ be a big bundle of barbed wire laying out here, seriously?"

"It's the end of that fence line, you see it over there?" Clint flutters a careless hand off to the east and now Tony can see it, the remains of a rusted wire fence that had run between the trees. "Whoever lived here before Shield took it--" he pauses, wincing as he pulls metal barbs from his skin "Ow, fucking _ow_ \--Those people must have been working on running it between the trees and just left it."

"And of all the damned trees in this huge ass forest you have to climb the one tree they leave it next to and put your foot right into it. Geez, Barton." Tony pulls the last piece out of the Clint's leg. The rest is snaked around his boot, and he slowly wiggles his foot out.

"I've always been lucky that way." Clint rolls up his now tattered pant leg gingerly to inspect the damage. There are a lot of shallow cuts and several very deep ones that bleed freely. "Well, that's not so bad, I guess," the archer says speculatively.

Tony swallows in disgust. "I'd hate to know what your basis of comparison is, Tweetie. That looks disgusting. And painful. Let's get you to a first aid kit and to the tender loving care of our not-that-kind-of-doctor doctor."

"Yeah, let me just get my boot," Clint says, and it takes _forever_ , in Tony's opinion anyway, for him to work it loose, and blood is running steadily from his shin and calf the entire time.

"Leave the goddamn boot, Clint, this is ridiculous."

"I can't, where am I going to get another one, you see a military surplus store out here anywhere? And I don't feel like walking back to the cabin in my socks." Clint rolls his eyes and keeps uncoiling barbed wire. His boot is pretty wrecked when he finally pulls it free, but still usable and he pulls it carefully on, wincing.

"Of course you do this when we are ten billion miles from the shanty, the shack, the old shitstead," Tony points out as they start back. The sun is going down.

"Yeah yeah yeah," Clint mutters, and is obviously favoring his injured leg. Blood trickles down over his boot. There are splashes here and there on the leaves behind them.

"I hope a bear doesn't follow your gore trail and kill us all in our sleep."

"How about you shut the hell up for a while?"

"Do you happen to know how much blood is in the human body? I'm...uh...asking for a friend."

"Somewhere between 'a lot' and 'not enough'. How's that for an answer?"

"Your leg looks like it walked out of a deleted scene from 'Hellraiser'."

Clint snorts in an almost-laugh and they walk in silence for a bit. Tony can just make out the lighted windows of the cabin in the distance. It's a good thing, because the temperature is dropping as the sun fades and Clint's limp is more pronounced.

"So I'm hoping you're not gonna tell me now that you're an anti-vaxxer or anything. Shield makes you get tetanus shots, right? Because if not, you are dead as a doornail, my friend. That barbed wire was rusted to fuck."

"Yes, _yes_ , oh my God, _yes_. Can you just stop talking for five minutes strung together?"

"Fine, but let me know right away if you start developing a fear of water. You're a trained assassin, a one man army, and I don't want you going full Cujo on me and Bruce."

"Cujo had rabies, not tetanus, you dillhole. And you'd be the _first_ person I would kill. In fact, I hope you burn in hell while wearing gasoline soaked pants, Tony Stark."

And Tony actually falls quiet then, and they are almost to the cabin, where a worried Bruce is watching from the doorway, when he leans towards Clint. "That was a good one," he whispers approvingly.

Clint's grin is sunny in the darkness. "Thanks."

*******

Dear Bruce,  
It has come to my attention that you have not appropriately separated your laundry these past few months. Please not only rectify this, but also try to change your underthings more often. I counted and compared the number of underwear to shirts/pants, and the math just doesn't add up. This is unacceptable, son.  
Love, Captain "Good Morning" America

Dear Hawkeye,  
I know this will be hard to accept, but this is you, writing from the future. I have sent this note through time and space to tell you: do not trust Bruce. I repeat, DO NOT TRUST BRUCE. I have learned that he was the one that ate all the oreos you had hidden in your backpack. I'm sorry to be the one to break it to...me.  
Love, Future Hawkeye

Dear Hulk,  
You smashed my house during your last Avengers fight. Luckily, it was shithole, and my insurance paid out and now I have a much nicer place. Hulk, you are the best. Tell Bruce Banner I said so, and that everyone loves you guys.  
Love, Old Lady with lots of doilies on the back of her furniture.  
PS: New doilies, because the old ones got smashed. By you.

Dear Clint,  
Yesterday you pulled a knife on me when I came into the bathroom and you were in the shower at the time. Where the fuck did the knife come from?  
Love, Tony  
PS: You are a twitchy bastard  
PPS: Do you have any more cookies hidden anywhere? In the same place your knife came from, perhaps?

*******

One of his earliest memories was of talking to his father, trying to get his attention.

They had been at dinner, and it seemed the perfect time to talk; Dad hadn't been working, hadn't been reading, or talking with someone, or _anything_. And so Tony had started telling him about an idea he had, hoping Dad would catch his excitement, would talk with him, help him plan, because Tony just knew that the two of them, working together, would be unstoppable. But as Tony grew more animated and passionate in his explanation Dad had just sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers in a gesture that Tony knew all too well, before saying "Jarvis, would you take Tony out of the room, please?"

Jarvis had been sympathetic, but led him out all the same. Tony had pretended it didn't hurt, but it had--even now, as a grown up man that memory was seared in his brain, still painful every time it floated to the surface. That casual dismissiveness.

His father hadn't been a bad man. He had cared about Tony.

He just didn't care very much.

Tony had been delighted when the other Avengers had agreed to move into his Tower. He already shared his space with Pepper, but she was so infrequently there that she was more of an occasional treasured guest than a roommate. The team was different, they were staying. He was thrilled to have them, thrilled to be able to show his friendship through gifts, through material delights. And the best part was that it was his house, and none of them could send him away.

Bruce and Clint have some secret, some thing that they discuss when he is not around. Several times he has entered the living room and they've had their heads together, talking, only for them to pull apart when they see him. Bruce looks worried, Clint looks carefully closed off, and Tony can't stand it. He hates that isolated feeling, especially when there is nothing-- _nothing_ \--here in this hellhole to distract him from his own dark, suspicious thoughts.

That night he hears both of the others having nightmares and feels a righteous, savage glee. Then he feels guilty and just pulls the pillow over his head so he doesn't have to hear anymore.

*******

It's Tony's turn to make breakfast and he's sort of at a loss; cooking has never been one of his skills. The cereal they had brought is long gone, so he decides to make oatmeal since there is a shit ton of it in the cabinet, and he's pretty sure he has seen Bruce eat it at the Tower. Clint never seems picky about food in general, it's probably a not a big deal to him after eating MREs with regularity for much of his adulthood.

Old oatmeal mixed with powdered milk made with wellwater ends up looking terrible and tasting worse. Bruce raises his eyebrows and says nothing, just adds bunch of dehydrated bananas to his bowl. Clint rests his forehead on one hand, using the other to stir his oatmeal over and over, looking rather unhappy.

"Stop being a sulky baby," Tony tells him, and takes a large bite. His stomach does a slow roll, and he wonders idly if it is possible for oats or powdered milk to turn. He takes another bite on principle.

Clint's body jerks as he makes a gagging noise, his lips pressed determinedly together. Bruce raises his eyebrows, gives him a questioning look.

"Alright, it tastes terrible, ha-freaking-ha," Tony gripes irritably. "You don't have to be an asshole about it." He fills his spoon with oatmeal, raises and examines it, then turns the spoon over. The gray goop slurps back into his bowl with a loud plop.

And then Clint is pushing his chair back rapidly, so hard that it falls onto the floor behind him as he dashes from the room. They can hear him throwing up loudly in the bathroom.

Tony blinks. "Wow, he's really committed to this. Really taking the mockery to the next level."

Bruce frowns, and gets up, pausing to right the fallen chair before going to check on Clint. Tony stays right where he is; puking is not something he enjoys doing, and he enjoys seeing someone else do it even less. He hears them talking in low voices, then Clint retching again. Gross.

Bruce comes back and sighs. "Well, he's sick."

"Yeah? No kidding!" Tony rolls his eyes. "It better not be contagious; the last thing I want is to be sick when a hot shower is at a premium." He takes his bowl to the sink, then gestures toward the oatmeal still on the table. "You want any of that? If you still have an appetite after Barton's gastric display, that is?"

Bruce wrinkles his nose and shakes his head, helps Tony clear the dishes. Clint walks into the living room a few minutes later, looking pale and holding his stomach lightly with one hand.

"Sorry about that," he says. "I wasn't feeling great to start with, and the food was...too much." He laughs self consciously.

"You'd  _better_ not give me anything," Tony warns darkly. "I thought this place couldn't get any worse, but you've always got to prove me wrong, Tweetie. If I start barfing, I'll see to it that it comes up all over you. Exclusively."

"It's not contagious," Bruce assures him. He fills a glass with water, thrusts it into Clint's hands.

Tony narrows his eyes when he sees Clint and the scientist exchange a look. "How would you know that?" he demands, and Bruce shrugs, glancing away. "What else could it be? Morning sickness? Are you pregnant, Clint?" He tries laughing at his own joke, but worry is pinging his radar. Then it hits him. "What the hell? It's from when you got hurt last week, isn't it? You're sick from that!"

"I'm not--" Clint starts to disagree, then follows it with an angry "Hey!" when Tony charges over to the couch, yanks up his pant leg. "Get your hands off me, Stark!"

"What is THIS?" Tony is furious, staring at Clint's leg, which is swollen and very red around white bandages. "What the hell?? How long has it looked like that? Why didn't you say something?"

Bruce reaches out slowly toward Clint's forehead, telegraphing the movement as much as possible, feels it with the back of his fingers. Fever, but not a bad one. "Let's soak it in some salt water again, that'll draw out some of the infection. Take some more ibuprofen from the first aid kit; that'll help with the inflammation, too."

Clint nods. "Okay, yeah, that sounds good."

"You said 'again'. You _knew_ ," Tony realizes, looking at Bruce, betrayed. "He told you he was sick, but neither of you saw fit to tell me."

"Because we knew you would freak out and worry, exactly like you are right now. There was no need for that, when we're already doing everything that can be done." Bruce's voice is clinical and pragmatic as he puts a pot of water on the stove to heat up. He rifles through the cabinet and pulls out a large container of salt. A suspicious amount is missing, has already been used.

Clint leans back a little into the couch, arm still positioned gingerly over his stomach. His brow furrows a bit as he closes his eyes, his face pale and drawn. He looks exhausted, and Tony is suddenly as angry as he has ever been.

"He needs a doctor." Clint's eyes snap open then, glaring at him. "You need a doctor," Tony repeats through gritted teeth, and proves he can return a dirty look with the best of them.

"My body will fight it off," the archer gripes back irritably. "That's what fever is _for_. And Steve and Nat should be coming any time; if it's still not better then, I'll get some antibiotics. Jesus." His eye roll is a study in disdain.

"It could be weeks before they come! It's already _been_ weeks. You have no idea how much longer it could take!"

"It's gonna be fine, Tony, don't be such a hysteric."

"Bruce?" Tony looks to the scientist. "Back me up here, he needs to see a doctor, you know he does."

Bruce carefully does not look up from the salt water he is mixing. He should be agreeing with Tony, but he says nothing. And maybe he _won't_ agree, since he has been colluding with Clint the whole time, hiding this for who knew how many days.

"He doesn't say, _I_ say. It's my goddamned leg, and it is not up for a vote." There is something dark in Clint's tone of voice that makes Tony look over at him sharply. "It's fine; we stay where we are. Like we agreed to do." His arms are crossed and his chin is raised, defiant.

"You always do what you're supposed to, is that it?"

"Is this--" Clint raises his hands, gestures to the cabin around them "--a game to you? Is being an Avenger something that you do when you feel like it, and if it ceases to be fun you just call a time out? You talk your way out of whatever you want, and if that doesn't work, you put on your Iron Man suit and blow things up until the other side cries uncle?"

"Shut up, Barton."

But he doesn't. "Because let me tell you, this is not a game to me, and it never has been. Every mission for Shield--even surveillance, even the milk runs--I knew that it could be the end. That I could die there. I was in it for keeps, and I accepted that. And I accepted that when we came out here. That I couldn't just get tired of camping and quit, that I couldn't catch a cold and call a time out while I got medicine. That's not the way it fucking _works_  when it's serious, Tony. You're either in it, or you're not. And I'm in it, one hundred percent. Every time. Are _you_?"

"This is not a world saving mission, you dumbass. This is protection detail, and it is stupid for you to get blood poisoning over it. That would literally be the most ridiculous way to die in the world, as well as the most pointless."

"We're not going anywhere." Clint's face is stone, his voice steel.

"Fine, asshole. But don't pretend like you're doing this for me. You're doing it for yourself."

*******

Tony can't sleep again. They've been in the cabin over three weeks now, and the silence, the boredom is wearing him thin. Now he gets to add worry over Clint's leg and frustration with him and Bruce to the insomnia list.

On sleepless nights in the Tower he could go to his workshop and tinker around, fill the long hours with ideas, with progress, to hide the fact that he was waiting for the time to pass, waiting for everyone else to wake up and help him fill the silence. Here there is nothing to do but wait.

He lights the kerosene lamp next to his bed and thinks of writing some more notes for Bruce and Clint, but no good ideas are coming. He decides to write a love letter to Pepper, to give to her when this purgatory finally ends, thinks she'd probably like that. He tries a few times, but everything comes out sounding phony, or too sappy, or too sarcastic. Nothing sounds right, nothing sounds like the way he actually feels about her.

He thinks about what Clint said, about not committing fully to things, to sidling out when things got rough. Maybe not bailing out, but finding workarounds, twisting things until he had his way. Pepper had something similar to him once, but about their relationship. Tony tries not to think about it too much.

He does his best not to think about anything at all.

*******

There's a weird, tense feeling in the cabin now, with Tony and Clint angry at one another, and Bruce alternately trying to bridge the gap between his friends and being irritated with them both.

Tony watches with a frown as Bruce helps Clint clean out his wounds and re-bandage them. The deep cuts are badly infected, but don't seem to get any worse over the next few days. His fever is low but steady, and he isn't eating much.

"Try to stay off of it," Bruce advises, and Tony's frown only deepens when Clint actually does. He borrows one of Bruce's books and hides out in his room. He doesn't go out walking in the woods anymore.

Bruce conspicuously stays in the living room, but he is hiding as surely as Clint. He buries his nose in novels, scribbles in his notebooks. "Want to play some cards?" he asks as Tony flops on the couch with a loud sigh.

"Not really."

"Okay." Bruce looks relieved and goes back to his writing.

Tony glares at him for a moment, then works on some writing of his own.

 _Dear Pepper,_ he tries, _I love you and_ \--- He can't really get past that point. I love you and I wish you were here? He doesn't. He wouldn't wish anyone here. I love you and I miss you? That was true, but too obvious, and not really what he's going for. He should ask Bruce if he has any epic romances in his piles of books that he could crib some passages from.

Tony gives up writing to Pepper and decides on something easier.

*******

 _Ode to Me by Steve Rogers, written for Bruce Banner_  
Deedle deedle doo,  
Steve Rogers will save you  
Deedle deedle dee  
The strongest dude is me

  
Spingle spangle, handsome jaw  
I like to save shit, like to draw  
Big round shield, big blue star  
A gosh darned hero is what I are

\-------

 _An Emo, Artsy Love Poem by Natasha Romanov, written for Clint Barton_  
My love--let us go forth together  
     and kill  
Everyone we ever knew  
     and even those we never did  
That's what we were born to do  
     burn down churches, poison water, frighten children  
Because Shield told us it was right  
     and we believed

*******

Clint slams the paper down in front of Tony, and his eyes are dark, furious. "Enough with your goddamned notes, Tony. I mean it."

And this time Tony feels bad, he really does, knows that he's pushed Clint too far, hit a little too personally. But when he opens his mouth to apologize he hears himself say instead, "Or what? Gonna lay down some law?"

"Or I'll shove the next one down your fucking throat." Clint's hand crumples the poem into a trembling, angry fist.

Bruce stands up, moves a little closer, not getting between them but ready to. "Guys, come on. It's close quarters in here, and we've been cooped up for weeks; we're just wearing on each other's nerves a little."

"It was only a joke," Tony says, ignoring him easily, "but I can't help it if it hits a nerve with you, Barton. If it hurts a little because it's true. You just can't handle some criticism of your beloved Shield." He knows it's not the dig at Shield that hurt, not really, but it is easier to deflect to that.

Clint thinks so, too. "Shield has always been good to me. Has been good to a lot of people, and not just the ones that work there."

"Yeah, you just keep saying that, and maybe if you believe hard enough the Blue Fairy will come and make it be true. You don't _even_ want to get me started on the 'good works' of Shield."

"Tony," Bruce warns.

"You mean the organization that is coordinating the protection of your patronizing ass right fucking now? Protecting your girlfriend? Your goddamned business empire?"

"Only because it suits them to do so. The second something is not in their best interest, they cut it loose." Tony takes a step forward, till he is almost touching his chest to Clint's. "And then they send one of their little tin soldiers to take care of things."

The moment he says it, he knows it is wrong, wishes he could reach out with his hands, grab the words from the air, shove them back down his throat where they can't hurt anyone. Clint's eyes had been angry, but now they go flat, absolutely expressionless. A long beat of silence spins out with he and Clint staring at each other, Bruce's aghast eyes flitting back and forth between the two of them.

 _Too far, Tony._ He can almost hear Pepper's words in his ear, see her disappointed eyes. _Why do you do this?_

"I'm sorry," Tony says, and he is, he really is. He reaches out with a tentative hand to Clint's shoulder, but the other man steps fluidly back.

"Fuck you." Clint's face and voice are completely neutral. He grabs his bow and quiver from where they sit next to the front door and stalks stiffly out.

"Clint, wait a second--" Bruce starts to say, and pulls his sweater off the back of the chair, snaking his arms quickly into it.

"Try not to fall into a pit of barbed wire, Twinkle Toes!" Tony shouts impulsively at the last second, and Bruce is so busy turning to toward Tony in horror that he misses his window to follow Clint out before the front door slams shut.

"Tony, what the hell??" Bruce gasps. "Seriously, Tony, what is _wrong_ with you?"

The million dollar question, the one that Tony has been asked too many times, and asked of himself even more. He never _means_ to hurt people. Even when he's angry and thinks of the perfect thing, the perfect insult, the perfect dagger to hurl--even _then_ he doesn't mean to hurt people, not really.

"I don't know," he answers finally, and Bruce just shakes his head, his face disappointed and dismayed, and turns away.

*******

"We should leave the lights on," Tony says anxiously as it gets darker and darker and Clint still doesn't return. "He doesn't have a flashlight or anything; he could have a hard time finding his way back."

Bruce is less worried. "He's a Shield agent; I think he's been in tighter spots than wandering through the American woods at night, Tony."

"He doesn't even have a coat. And he's sick," Tony protests. _And upset,_ he doesn't add.

"It will be okay. He just needs to cool down. We all just need to cool down."

_This is your fault._

Bruce doesn't say it, and maybe he doesn't even think it, but he should.

Because it is.

********

It is late, so late in the night, when Tony finally hears the front door creak open. He jumps out of bed and stands in his bedroom door to hear Bruce, from the living room couch, mumble groggily, "Hey, you okay?"

Clint answers something back, too low for Tony to make out, then moves silently towards his room. He glances at Tony as he goes past, doesn't say anything. He is limping a little but seems otherwise alright, and Tony sags with quiet relief. He considers going back to bed, but knows won't be able to sleep, has to try to make things right if he can.

Tony knocks quietly, then opens the bedroom door before Clint can tell him to get lost. He's perched on the edge of the bed, unlacing his boots slowly. "What?" he asks, and his voice is thin and exhausted. "I'm tired; I want to go to bed."

"I just wanted to see if you're alright."

"I am. Now, goodnight." Clint is sweating lightly and doesn't bother changing his clothes before pulling the sheets back and collapsing into bed with a soft groan.

"Can we talk, just for a minute?"

"We can talk tomorrow, I'm really tired." And he sounds it. Clint burrows under the covers, shivering, facing the wall, curled up on his side.

"Let _me_ talk for a minute, then."

Clint just sighs. Finally Tony sits down on the edge of the bed, his side pressing lightly against Clint's back. "How do you feel? Are you okay?"

"Mmm." Clint makes an inscrutable noise but seems to settle into Tony a little; whether seeking out his body heat or trying to absorb a little human comfort, Tony isn't sure. And doesn't much care.

"I'm sorry for what I said. You know I don't actually think those things."

Clint is quiet for so long that Tony thinks he will not answer, or has maybe fallen asleep. Then he says "But maybe they are true anyway."

"Do I think Shield is perfect? No, I don't. Do I think you're a mindless killer? No, I don't, and I was wrong to ever make you feel otherwise."

"Don't worry about it."

Tony is about to say something else when he hears a soft noise. It takes him a few moments before he realizes it's the sound of Clint's teeth chattering. " _Really_?" he says with a gentle indignance. "Hell, Barton, I'm coming in...don't murder me." Tony raises the edge of the quilt and slides under, cuddling up next to Clint, laying one arm protectively over him. "I'll help you warm up, huh?"

Clint gives a long suffering sigh. "Always pushing it." But he doesn't knock him away, which Tony considers real progress at this point. "You should go," Clint adds finally, "you don't want me to fall asleep with you here."

"Are you afraid you'll have a nightmare and wake me up? I don't care about that, and neither should you. The Avengers are a PTSD potluck. Mine are exceptionally colorful, I can tell you all about them if you need a little entertainment."

"Yeah, but I might hurt you before I realize it's you. It wouldn't be the first time I've done that to someone. I don't want to hurt you...but I might anyway." His voice sounds faraway, and more than a little sad.

"I'll take my chances. Is it always like that for you? Bad dreams, waking badly?"

"Yeah, ever since I was a kid."

"Does anything ever help? Being cuddled by your friend neighborhood Iron Man, perhaps?" Tony goes for a light tone, because he can feel the melancholy rolling off Clint in waves, can almost see it taking form and looming above them.

 _Because of me_ , he thinks. Clint is generally a happy guy, joking and full of fun, but there is a depressive streak a mile wide that runs through him and occasionally comes out to play. Clint definitely has the unhappy emotional ammunition, but this time it was Tony that loaded the gun.

"I can't always remember the dreams; the ones I do are mostly of my father, or of things I've done...people screaming, gunfire, being afraid. I usually forget whatever it was, and it's like I wake up from nothingness, from blackness, and it's terrifying. But one day I had one of those nights and I woke up and it was different. Because instead of nothingness I could feel comforting arms around me, and hear a beating heart against my ear, felt fingers running through my hair. And when I opened my eyes I saw the kindest, most beautiful face I had ever seen looking back at me."

"Natasha Romanov," Tony guesses with a smile.

Clint lets out a soft, sad laugh. "Phillip Coulson."

And that takes Tony completely by surprise. He had known that the two men had been close, but he had no idea they had been _that_ close. This new information went a long way to explain the emotional tsunami that had been Clint Barton after the Battle of New York. "Really? I didn't know that you and Agent Agent were..." He trails off.

"Yeah. We worked together for a lot of years before we were _together_ , but the time we did have was...was wonderful. The happiest time of my whole life. Then Loki took him away. Loki took everything that was good away from me, except for Natasha. You all tease, you all make fun of me for clinging to her, but maybe you see now why I have to. I just _have_ to; she's all I have left."

"That's not true, you have us." _For what we're worth._

"I know, but I mean that she loves me. She's the only person left in the whole world that does."

"Again, not true. We love you, Clint. I love you." And it's the truth. Tony loves them all, this motley family that they've created together. And surely they knew that by now.

Even though he can't show it.

"Not the same."

"No, _exactly_ the same. Exactly the same."

"Thanks, Tony. That's...nice of you to say."

But somehow Clint sounds sadder than ever, probably doesn't believe him. Tony just sighs and wraps his arms around him more tightly.

"Do you..." Clint surprises him by whispering again. "Do you believe in God? In God and heaven and all that stuff?"

Boom, another emotional turn that Tony hadn't seen coming. "Uh, I don't know. I guess? I don't know. I guess I don't know what I think about that sort of thing. Did you grow up that way? Believing?"

"My mama always said there was a God, that He'd watch out for me, for my brother. That He'd protect us. But He never did. Never once protected us from our father, who was the cruelest man in the whole world. Never protected her either, whenever she was beaten bloody, or when she died in a car crash, probably with His name on her lips. And He never protected anyone from me, when I grew up to be a worse man than my father ever was. A person who dealt in death and killed when his masters ordered. I always tried to tell myself that I was doing it for a righteous cause, that I was saving the world...but I knew better all along. Knew that I was actually a nightmare, every bit a monster, a perfect tin soldier for Shield."

And there it is. Tony flinches at his own words in Clint's mouth, words that had hurt, had cut deep when he had not wanted them to. Here he was, someone so smart, someone who should know so much better--being as cruel and careless with his words as his own father had been.

"Shhh, don't say that. You're one of the best people I know. You're a good person, Clint."

"I'd like to believe that at least heaven was true. That good men like Phil Coulson get rewarded with a heaven to go to. He earned one." Clint's breathing is carefully even, but Tony feels a hot tear splash down onto his hand, then another. "But we would never be reunited there, because if there's a God then I will burn in Hell as sure as anything. And I will deserve it every bit as much as Phil deserved heaven."

"I don't believe that for a second," Tony says as seriously as he can, silently willing Clint to believe him.

"And if _none_ of it is true then we just wink into nothingness. Our light just dies out and I _still_ never see Phil again. And I want to, Tony. I want that more than anything--to see him again."

"Hey. Hey." Tony squeezes his arms around his friend as tightly as he can. "I don't know enough about spirituality or religion or philosophy or anything to give you a proper answer. But I _do_ know this: you are a good person. You've always been kind, and gracious, and a friend to me when I've needed one. I think you're living out life the best way you know how, being the best person you can. And maybe you've made mistakes, like we all have, but there's nothing that you haven't tried to make right. And here's the last thing I know. Someday, long from now, you'll be an old man laying warm and safe in your bed, and you'll close your eyes and rest...and then you'll feel comforting arms around you, and you'll open your eyes to see Phil Coulson smiling at you again. I really believe that. I believe that for you."

And Clint can't contain his sobs now, and his hands go automatically to his mouth, to hold the sound in--the habit of a child who hid tears from an angry father, the habit of a man who hid tears from everyone--but this time Tony catches Clint's hands in his own and holds them.

Holds them and holds Clint as he cries them both to sleep.

*******

Steve shows up two days later, and they're alright.

Tony showers for thirty minutes on principle, then orders in everyone's favorite takeout for dinner. They sit around a table piled high with Chinese, Italian, Ethiopian, and greasy American food, talking loudly. Everyone laughs as Bruce tells the oatmeal story, complete with an exaggerated imitation of Clint puking. The subsequent arguments are tactfully left out, and mostly forgotten.

"All that matters is that everyone made it through safe," Steve says. "That we made it together."

Tony agrees.

That's all that matters.

*******

Dear Pepper,  
I've started and stopped this letter a hundred times, trying to find the perfect words to tell you how much I love you.  
I met you and you gave me forgiveness, grace, and unconditional love.  
And for that, you are first in my heart. But I hope you are not the last. I want to be the sort of man that lets other people in, to draw them close instead of pushing them away, until there are many people just as dear to me as you are.  
You make me want to be that man, and maybe I'll try a hundred times and fail...but I'll keep trying forever. Because of you.  
Love,  
Tony

*******

When she reads the letter, she cries, and kisses him.

 


End file.
